


beauty is created by grievous conflicts

by fratboyoforome



Series: To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Graphic Violence, Hate Sex, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, everyone's got issues, maedhros has issues, maglor has issues, terrible brothers being terrible to each other, this is genuinely the most horrible thing i have ever written, this is what i'm repenting for yom kippur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fratboyoforome/pseuds/fratboyoforome
Summary: “I said,” hisses Maedhros, “that I would make you the victim, you so long to be, and in doing so, prove myself the monster, you’ve always thought me to be.”





	beauty is created by grievous conflicts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts), [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> once more dedicated to [lion](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com) and to [june](http://imindhowwelayinjune.tumblr.com) bc they are both terrible terrible enablers (even if they don't realise it)
> 
> y'all can hit me up on [tumblr](http://fratboy-of-orome.tumblr.com) for a chat abt the murder bros, my boy finrod, or literally anything else
> 
> title from The Country Atlantis a poem by danish author tom kristensen (of which there, apparently, are no english translations)

The sons of Fëanor, save the third, are all gathered in Maedhros’ rooms, when there is a knock on the door.

None of them notice it.

Maedhros stands by the fireplace, gazing contemplatively at the fire – to the casual observer, he is completely at ease, caught up in his musings, but to those who know him well, his put-upon disinterest is belied the tightness of his shoulders and the way he constantly flexes his hand; he is paying very close attention to his younger brothers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he is acutely aware of everything that happens in the room. Not that much is happening. They have been gathered here since midday, continuing a discussion that seems endless in nature, and Maedhros is tired of it.

So are the others, he thinks.

Three of them, Caranthir, Maglor, and Amras, are seated at the grand table, neither looking at each other. Amras is absently polishing his hunting knife, a half-rusted ancient thing, and pays no attention to what goes on around him. Maglor’s face is hidden behind his lank, dark hair, and he keeps twisting his elegant musician’s fingers, making little whining noises in the back of his throat, like a wounded animal, longing for attention. Caranthir is frowning at his wine goblet, deep in thought, though he, like his oldest brother, is listening attentively to the second-youngest of them all.

Curufin, for his part, is fighting a battle – not a physical battle, of course, but a battle of words, the kind he excels at.

“Do none of you understand?” he says severely, continuing a speech that has lasted the better part of the evening. “This half breed brat spits in our faces, spits on our father’s grave, by wearing what rightfully belongs to us, our inheritance, around his neck, as if he has any claim to it, as if his cursed mother had any right to take it, as if his sanctimonious grand-father had any right to demand it in the first place!”

He stops abruptly, realising suddenly that he has raised his voice, and takes a deep breath, composing himself again. He continues, quieter, but no less intense:

“Think on it, brothers. If we leave Amon Ereb within a fortnight, we shall reach Menegroth on Midwinter’s Eve. The Sindar will not expect us, busy as they will be with the festival, and, if we are quick and subtle, we will reclaim our inheritance with minimal bloodshed. Perhaps only the half breed will have to die.”

“You are not as crafty as people think, little brother,” Caranthir says then, his voice rough with supressed anger, “if you truly think we can take the Silmaril without undue bloodshed. Not only do you underestimate the diligence of the Doriathrim, but you underestimate our older brothers’ bloodlust, and your own as well.”

Caranthir turns to look at Maedhros, “if we follow Curufin’s plan, we will gain nothing, save more blood of our kindred to stain our hands. It is not often I advise caution, but I think it would be wiser, now, to wait and see how Eluchíl answers out suit.”

Maedhros does not outwardly react, while Curufin lets out a derisive laugh.

“If,” Caranthir continues, undeterred, “Dior is as noble, as the rumour claims, then he will see the truth of our claim, and he will give up the Silmaril willingly.”

“And you call me a fool,” sneers Curufin, “you, who are as naïve as a mere child.”

Caranthir blushes deeply and narrows his eyes in anger. His angry retort is interrupted by a second knock on the door.

“Enter,” says Maedhros, and the door is opened. Two women enter – one stately and severe, Maedhros’ loyal servant, the other no less severe, yet marked by a long hard journey. They both incline their heads in a gesture of respect and deference.

“My lord,” says Maedhros’ servant, “news from Doriath.”

“Speak,” says Curufin sharply, turning his shrewd gaze on the other woman, who meets his gaze head-on, entirely un-intimidated.

“King Dior sends his regards,” says the woman, whom Maedhros recognises as one of Curufin’s. All the brothers look at her with disbelief at her words. She ignores them all, save Curufin.

“Be that as it may,” Curufin says, “but what says he to our suit?”

“He says, my lord,” the woman continues, and here she lowers her eyes in embarrassment, “and these are his words, my lord, not mine, of course.” She takes a deep breath, and continues, “King Dior sends his regards, and denies your suit. He says, that whatever claim you once had on the Silmaril, has been washed away by the blood of his kindred. He says, that the Silmaril will forevermore belong to the line of Lúthien Tinúviel, and no Kinslaying orc-creature, masquerading as a noble lord, nor his equally-bloodstained brothers, shall ever take it from them.” The woman falls silent.

Maedhros sees the red flush staining Caranthir’s cheeks, the narrowing of Curufin’s eyes, and how Amras’ hold on his hunting knife shifts subtly, at Dior’s insults, and steps in immediately.

“Thank you for the swiftness of your news,” he says to Curufin’s woman, and then looks at his own servant, “take her to the kitchen and arrange for food and a bed, so she can rest.”

The two women bow and take their leave. The door has barely shut behind them, before Caranthir explodes. “That arrogant, little weasel!” In anger, he throws his goblet through the room, spattering wine all over the table and narrowly missing Maglor’s head.

“Calm yourself, Moryo,” hisses Curufin, “and think!” He glances at Maedhros. “Dior has just given us an excuse to attack him. Indeed, everyone will be expecting us to. If we do not, we will lose face. Not even our own people will respect us. We must…”

“Enough,” says Maedhros then, quiet but careful to give his voice a sharp edge of authority. Curufin falls silent, and Caranthir slowly sits back down. “I have listened to you for several days now, but I am the eldest and the rightful king, and the decision is mine.” He stops and thinks for a moment, trying to reach a decision. Though he knows what he will decide, he hesitates – he likes to think of himself as someone thorough, who considers all angles, but really, it was a given from the start.

He takes a deep breath and say, “I agree with Curvo. We gather our people, outfit them as best we can, and leave within a fortnight.”

Caranthir opens his mouth, obviously angry and wishing to protest, but Maedhros raises a hand to stop him. “I will hear no more,” he says, “this is my decision, brother. Whether you join us or not, is entirely up to you.”

Caranthir subsides unwillingly. Curufin smirks. “Well,” he says, smoothing his robes, “I’m glad you’ve finally seen sense. I shall go and inform our missing brother of your decision.”

“I think, we all know, what you intend to do with our missing brother,” snorts Caranthir.

“I haven’t the faintest idea, what you’re talking about,” Curufin answers slickly and slips out the door. Caranthir glares after him and stands up.

“I’ll retire too,” he says, “come, Ambarussa.” Amras stands without a word, sheathing his knife, and follows Caranthir out the door.

Maedhros sinks into a chair and pours himself a goblet of wine, without looking at Maglor even once. In response to this disinterest, Maglor makes a high-pitched, whining noise in the back of his throat, trying to sound as much like a wounded animal, as he can manage.

“I have no interest in your put-upon pain,” Maedhros says coldly, still without looking at Maglor. “Either shut up or return to your rooms.”

Maglor stands up slowly, overplaying his wounded state, and deliberately trips over his own feet, falling down in front of Maedhros, forcing his older brother to see him. Maedhros, however, says nothing, merely kicks him lightly.

Maglor hides his face and weeps. Maedhros doesn’t react.

Maglor raises his head, and looks up at Maedhros, blinking out a few more tears. He makes a pitiful sight and he knows it.

“Please, brother,” he whimpers.

“What?” sneers Maedhros at last, turning both his eyes, one green as emeralds and one milky white with scar tissue. His face is terrifying and Maglor forces himself to sob at the sight, saying nothing. “What do you want, you pathetic, snivelling wretch?” Maedhros sneers again with contempt.

“I need help,” Maglor whimpers, “you hurt me so badly yesterday, brother, I can hardly walk. Please.”

Maedhros’ lip curls with disgust. “Don’t you ever get tired of this ridiculous performance?”

“’Tis no performance, brother!” Maglor cries indignantly, “it is you, who must always hurt me, and I,” he sniffles pathetically, “I bear the pain for love of you.”

“You,” Maedhros says, his eyes narrowing, “you do not love me.” He stands tall, towering above Maglor’s prostate form. “To you, I am a monster. Utterly ruined and corrupted by what has been done to me, and you,” he reaches down and pulls Maglor to his feet with a firm grip on his hair, “you insist on courting disaster. You want the violence. You want to be a victim.”

“No, brother, no,” Maglor gasps, as the script of this game dictates, “please, do not hurt me again, please…” But Maedhros tightens his grip on the dark hair and twists Maglor’s head back painfully. He leans in close, so Maglor has no choice but to stare into those unsettling, mismatched eyes, so Maglor can feel goose bumps rise on his jaw, when Maedhros’ breath ghosts over it – a horrible parody of tenderness.

“If you want so desperately to be a victim,” Maedhros whispers dangerously, his mouth very close to Maglor’s ear, “I shall make you a victim.”

“Please don’t,” Maglor starts, but has the breath knocked out of him, when Maedhros pushes him roughly up against the rough stonewall by the door. For a second, there is something like relief, when Maedhros relinquishes his hold on Maglor’s hair, but the relief is replaced with confusion, when Maedhros roughly rips Maglor’s tunic off him.

“Brother,” Maglor gasps, “brother, what…?” This isn’t part of the script. Maglor needles, Maedhros is violent, that is how it usually goes, but this. This isn’t what they usually do.

“I said,” hisses Maedhros, “that I would make you the victim, you so long to be, and in doing so, prove myself the monster, you’ve always thought me to be.”

Holding Maglor up against the wall, so he cannot squirm away, and divesting him of his clothes, proves difficult for Maedhros on account of only having one hand. Afraid that Maedhros might simply give up and leave Maglor like this, Maglor reaches down and pushes down his trousers.

“Take all the pleasure you want from me, brother,” he whispers, pushing out a few tears, “I do not mind the pain, when it is for you.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” grunts Maedhros, reaching into his own trousers, and forcing himself to become hard.

“I am sorry,” says Maglor, making his voice tremble with unshed tears, “I merely wanted you to know…” He cuts off with a cry of genuine pain, when Maedhros pushes into him roughly, with no preparation of any kind.

“Shut. Up,” he grunts, pulling out and pushing in again, making sure that the bricks will rip the skin off Maglor’s chest and stomach with every push. Maglor, for his part, doesn’t fight it, but wails loudly from pain.

Irritated, Maedhros grabs Maglor’s hair again and drags his head back so he can barely breathe. “Am I monstrous enough now, brother?” Maedhros punctuates the question by biting down harshly on the sensitive tip of Maglor’s ear.

Maglor groans, though whether it’s from pain or pleasure isn’t completely clear.

“You,” he says once he has air enough in his lungs, “are not strong enough to truly hurt me.” It’s a lie, of course, as evidenced by the blood on his stomach and between his thighs, but nothing makes Maedhros angrier than being treated like an invalid.

Maedhros says nothing, but uses his stump arm to push Maglor’s face up against the bricks, almost certainly breaking his nose. Maglor grins to himself, through the pain clouding his head, knowing that this is a win for him. Making Maedhros behave like the monster, Maglor knows he is, is the entire point of the game.

Well, that, and having an excuse to wander the castle like a wounded ghost.

Abruptly Maedhros pulls out of Maglor, spins him around, and pushes him to kneel on the floor. Without looking directly at Maglor, he brings himself off as quickly and efficiently as he can, spending all over Maglor’s face and hair.

Then he tucks himself away and finally looks down at Maglor, covered in blood and tears and seed – a pitiful sight, indeed. “Clean yourself up,” says Maedhros icily, “and be ready to ride out in a fortnight.” Then he turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Maglor on the floor, naked and dirty, and weeping.

Once Maedhros is gone, Maglor climbs to his feet, wincing from the pain in his… everything. He pulls on his ruined trousers and tunic, and slips silently down the hallway towards his own rooms, pleased with himself despite his wounds.

He has won this round of the game.


End file.
